The Confession (26 page)

This, on top of all the other stories, led to a near overload of news that had to be discussed and analyzed and put in perspective, and quickly. Shorty had the floor for a few minutes, but was soon overshadowed
by Jesse, who always dominated the conversations. Various opinions were put forth on what the police should be doing, and no one argued that the police were handling things properly.

For years, Jesse had boasted that he would witness the execution of Donté Drumm, couldn’t wait to watch it, would, in fact, pull the switch himself if given the chance. He had said many times that his dear Reeva was insistent that he be there, on account of his fondness for and closeness to Nicole, his beloved niece. Every man rocking away had seen Jesse get choked up and wipe his eyes when talking about Nicole. But now a last-minute bureaucratic snafu was keeping Jesse away from Huntsville. There were so many journalists and prison officials and other big shots wanting to watch that Jesse got bumped. It was the hottest ticket in town, and Jesse, though on the approved list, had somehow been left out.

A man named Rusty walked in and announced, “Another church is on fire! One of those black Pentecostal ones.”

“Where?”

“In Slone, near Washington Park.”

The thought of a retaliatory church burning was at first inconceivable. Even Jesse was stunned. But the more they talked about it and analyzed it, the more they liked it. Why not? Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. If they want war, we’ll give ’em a war. There was a general agreement that Slone was a powder keg and they were in for a long night. This was disturbing, but also stimulating. Every man sitting around the stove had at least two guns in his truck and more in the house.

Two strangers entered the Trading Post: one, a man of the cloth with a collar and navy jacket, the other man a slick-headed cripple who shuffled along with a cane. The minister walked to a display case and took out two bottles of water. The other man went to the restroom.

Keith set the two bottles on the counter and said “Good morning” to Jesse. Behind him, the experts in the rockers were all talking at once and Keith understood none of it.

“You from around here?” Jesse asked as he rung up the water.

“No, just passing through,” Keith said. His speech was crisp, precise, no accent at all. Yankee.

“You a preacher?”

“Yes. I’m a Lutheran minister,” Keith said as he caught a nose full of onion rings being removed from hot grease. A hunger pain hit and buckled his knees. He was starving, and exhausted, but there was no time for food. Boyette was shuffling over. Keith handed him a bottle, said “Thanks” to Jesse, and turned for the door. Boyette nodded at Jesse, who said, “You boys have a good day.”

And with that, Jesse spoke to the man who murdered his niece.

In the parking lot, an Audi stopped abruptly next to the Subaru, and two men—Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor—crawled out. Quick introductions were made. Aaron and Fred looked closely at Boyette, sizing him up, asking themselves if the guy was real. Robbie would want to know as soon as they got back in the car and called him.

Aaron said, “We’re about fifteen minutes from the office, and we’ll have to detour around downtown. There’s a lot going on. Just stick close, okay?”

“Let’s go,” Keith said, anxious to finish this interminable drive. They drove away, the Subaru tailgating the Audi. Boyette seemed calm, even detached. The cane was resting between his legs. He thumped its handle with his fingers, in much the same way he’d been doing for the past ten hours. When they passed the sign indicating the municipal boundaries of Slone, Boyette said, “I never thought I’d see this place again.”

“Recognize it?”

The tic, the pause. “Not really. I’ve seen a lot of these places, Pastor, small hick towns everywhere. After a while, they tend to blur together.”

“Anything special about Slone?”

“Nicole. I killed her.”

“And she was the only one you killed?”

“I didn’t say that, Pastor.”

“So there are others?”

“Didn’t say that either. Let’s talk about something else.”

“And what would you like to talk about, Travis?”

“How’d you meet your wife?”

“I’ve told you before, Travis, leave her out of it. You’re much too concerned with my wife.”

“She’s so cute.”

———

On the conference table, Robbie pushed a button for the speakerphone and said, “Talk to me, Fred.”

“We met them; they’re behind us now, and they appear to be a genuine minister and one seriously weird sidekick.”

“Describe Boyette.”

“White male, you wouldn’t call him handsome. Five ten, 150, shaved scalp with a bad tattoo on the left side of his neck, several more covering his arms. Has the look of a sick puppy who’s spent his life locked away. Green shifty eyes that don’t blink. I wanted to wash my hand after shaking his. Weak handshake, a dishrag.”

Robbie took a deep breath and then said, “So they’re here.”

“They are indeed. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”

“Hurry up.” He turned off the speakerphone and looked at his team scattered around the table, all watching him. “It might be somewhat intimidating for Boyette to walk in here and have ten people staring at him,” Robbie said. “Let’s pretend like it’s business as usual. I’ll take him to my office and ask the first questions.”

Their file on Boyette was getting thicker. They had found records of his convictions in four states and a few details of his incarcerations, and they had located the lawyer in Slone who’d represented him briefly after his arrest there. The lawyer vaguely remembered him and had sent over his file. They had an affidavit from the owner of the Rebel Motor Inn, one Inez Gaffney, who had no recollection of Boyette, but did find his name in an old ledger from 1998. They had the building records
from the Monsanto warehouse where Boyette allegedly worked in the late fall of that year.

Carlos tidied up the conference table and they waited.

———

When Keith parked at the train station and opened his door, he heard sirens in the distance. He smelled smoke. He sensed trouble.

“The First Baptist Church burned last night,” Aaron said as they walked up the steps to the old loading platform. “Now there’s a fire at a black church over there.” He nodded to his left, as if Keith was supposed to know his way around town.

“They’re burning churches?” he asked.

“Yep.”

Boyette struggled up the steps, leaning on his cane, and then they stepped into the lobby. Fanta pretended to be busy with a word processor, barely looking up.

“Where’s Robbie?” Fred Pryor asked, and she nodded toward the back.

Robbie met them in the conference room. Awkward introductions were made. Boyette was reluctant to speak or to shake hands. Abruptly, he said to Robbie, “I remember you. I saw you on television after the boy was arrested. You were upset, almost yelling at the camera.”

“That’s me. Where were you?”

“I was here, Mr. Flak, watching it all, couldn’t believe they had arrested the wrong guy.”

“That’s right, the wrong guy.” For someone as high-strung and quick-tempered as Robbie Flak, it was difficult to remain calm. He wanted to slap Boyette, and grab his cane and beat him senseless, and curse him for a long list of transgressions. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands. Instead, he pretended to be cool, detached. Harsh words would not help Donté.

They left the conference room and walked into Robbie’s office. Aaron and Fred Pryor stayed outside, ready for whatever came next.
Robbie directed Keith and Boyette to a small table in the corner, and all three sat down. “Would you like some coffee or something to drink?” he asked, almost pleasantly. He stared at Boyette, who stared back without flinching or blinking.

Keith cleared his throat and said, “Look, Robbie, I hate to ask for favors, but we haven’t eaten in a long time. We’re starving.”

Robbie picked up the phone, rang Carlos, and ordered a tray of deli sandwiches and water.

“No sense beating around the bush, Mr. Boyette. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

The tic, the pause. Boyette shifted and squirmed, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “Well, the first thing I want to know is if there’s any reward money on the table.”

Keith dropped his head and said, “Oh my God.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Robbie asked.

“I suppose everything is serious right now, Mr. Flak,” Boyette said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“This is the first mention of reward money,” Keith said, completely exasperated.

“I have needs,” Boyette said. “I don’t have a dime and no prospects of finding one. Just curious, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Robbie repeated. “The execution is less than six hours away, and our chances of stopping it are very slim. Texas is about to execute an innocent man, and I’m sitting here with the real killer, who suddenly wants to get paid for what he’s done.”

“Who says I’m the real killer?”

“You,” Keith blurted. “You told me you killed her and you know where the body is buried because you buried it. Stop playing games, Travis.”

“If I recall correctly, her father put up a bunch of dough when they were trying to find her. Something like $200,000. That right, Mr. Flak?”

“That was nine years ago. If you think you’re in line for the reward money, you’re badly mistaken.” Robbie’s words were measured, but an explosion was imminent.

“Why do you want money?” Keith asked. “According to your own words, you’ll be dead in a few months. The tumor, remember?”

“Thanks for reminding me, Pastor.”

Robbie glared at Boyette with unrestrained hatred. The truth was that Robbie, at that moment, would sign over every asset he could find in exchange for a nice thick affidavit that told the truth and might save his client. There was a long stretch of silence as the three contemplated what to do next. Boyette grimaced and then began rubbing his slick head. He placed both palms on both temples and pressed as hard as possible, as if pressure from the outside world would relieve the pressure from within.

“Are you having a seizure?” Keith asked, but there was no response.

“He has these seizures,” Keith said to Robbie, as if an explanation would help matters. “Caffeine helps.”

Robbie jumped to his feet and left the room. Outside his office, he told Aaron and Pryor, “The son of a bitch wants money.” He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a pot of stale coffee, found two paper cups, and returned to his office. He poured a cup for Boyette, who was bent double at the waist, elbows on knees, cradling his head, and moaning. “Here’s some coffee.”

Silence.

Finally, Boyette said, “I’m going to be sick. I need to lie down.”

“Take the sofa,” Robbie said, pointing to it across the room. Boyette struggled to his feet and with Keith’s help made it to the sofa, where he wrapped his arms around his head and pulled his knees to his chest. “Can you turn off the lights?” Boyette said. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Robbie said, ready to scream.

“Please, just a minute,” Boyette said pathetically as his body vibrated and he gasped for air. Keith and Robbie left the office and stepped into the conference room. A crowd soon gathered, and Robbie introduced Keith to the rest of the gang. The food arrived and they ate quickly.

T
hey came for Donté at noon. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Everything precise and well rehearsed. There was a knock on the metal door behind him. Three loud raps. He was talking to Cedric, but when he knew it was time, he asked for his mother. Roberta was standing behind Cedric, with Andrea and Marvin at her sides, all four squeezed into the small room, all four crying now with no effort to hold back the tears. They had watched the clock for four hours, and there was nothing left to say. Cedric exchanged places with Roberta, who took the phone and placed her palm on the Plexiglas. Donté did the same from the other side. His three siblings embraced behind his mother, all four huddled together, touching, with Andrea in the middle and on the verge of collapse.

“I love you, Momma,” Donté said. “And I’m so sorry this is happening.”

“I love you too, baby, and you don’t have to say you’re sorry. You did nothing wrong.”

Donté wiped his cheeks with a sleeve. “I always wished I could’ve
gotten outta here before Daddy died. I wanted him to see me as a free man. I wanted him to know that I did nothing wrong.”

“He knew that, Donté. Your daddy never doubted you. When he died, he knew you were innocent.” She wiped her face with a tissue. “I’ve never doubted you either, baby.”

“I know. I guess I’ll be seeing Daddy pretty soon.”

Roberta nodded, but could not respond. The door behind him opened, and a large male guard appeared. Donté hung up the phone, stood, and placed both palms flat on the Plexiglas. His family did the same. One final embrace, and then he was gone.

With his hands cuffed again, Donté was led from the visitors’ wing, through a series of clicking metal doors, out of the building, over a lawn crisscrossed with sidewalks, and into a wing where he was taken back to his cell for the last time. Everything, now, was for the last time, and as Donté sat on his bunk and stared at his box of assets, he almost convinced himself that it would be a relief to get away.

His family was given a few minutes to collect themselves. As Ruth was leading them out of the room, she gave them a hug. She said she was sorry, and they thanked her for her kindness. Just as they were walking through a metal door, she said, “You folks headed to Huntsville?”

Yes, of course, they were.

“Might want to get on over there. Rumor is there might be trouble on the roads.”

They nodded but were not sure how to respond. They walked through security at the front building, got their driver’s licenses and purses, and walked out of Polunsky for the last time.

———

The “trouble on the roads” mentioned by Ruth was a clandestine Facebook conspiracy inspired by two black students at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville. The code name was Detour, and the plan was so simple and so brilliant that it attracted dozens of volunteers.